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Music

You must pauseand marvel, if you will,that only the flute –from the simple woodento the most elegant metal –when played by skilled hands,can transport the listener.Some would say to heaven,others to hell,and often atexactly the same moment.

From time to time it sneaks back into my mind, and once there is so hard to ignore or dislodge.It begins softly, “I am he,as you are he, as you are me.”It grows ever more present, foreground,“I am the eggman, they are the eggmen,”and all to soon, I become the walrus,but only one chorus and then my egg manis Humpty Dumpty, not he of the nursery rhyme, but the wise one who said “whenI use a word it means justwhat I wish it to mean, neither more nor less,”and I, like Humpty, in that momentam the master of words, and the song fades, but nowwhat is that song you can’t get out of your own mind?Oh, well, goo goo g’joob.

I thought I hearda woman singingsomewhere in the distance,an ethereal song whose melodyfloated over me, droppingmomentarily into my consciousnessthen as quickly flitting away.I walked offthe carefully tended pathstepped into the clutching brush,the smell of Juniperfilled the air.Pushing through a thicketI thought I saw a womanretreating into the treesbut the melody lingeredand I sat and listenednever seeing the singeronly hearing the song.

The name on the doorsays Richard Straussthough the lack of musicemanating from within the roomsuggests he may be nappingor off doing something more importantthan entertaining those of usout in the hall of the nursing home.It’s no surprise, he’d bein a home now, more odd thathe isn’t long dead, but musichas a life of its own, so too musicians.Johann Bach and I discussed thisjust other night, though hesaid he has little usefor so much of today’s music,“It all went to Hades after Wolfgang,Ludwig and Johannes, butwhat do I know, since I am nowjust one more of the ancients.”Johann added, “I’d like to stayand talk, but when youare my age, well, tempus fugit,and I must, therefore, bid you farewell.”I slid quickly back intothe fugue state of my dreams.

The big mancaresses the bassand the strings pour outcaramel and cocoa.Ulysses strokes the skinswhich sing the melodyand mind the rhythm.The keys of the Steinwaywhisper to himplay me, play meand even the 89th keyfinally joins in the song.

I laughed at my parentswhen they talked about a typewriteras something of a marvelwhen they were so commonplace.Of course as a boy, half the funof helping my father at workwas knowing the mimeo inkwould stain my fingers purple for a week and even boraxwould only render them lilac.And the wet process copierwith the pink tissue paper sheetsseemed utterly remarkable.10 rem Then I found the computer20 rem and I could make a machine30 rem actually do my willreturn without gosub.Now it seems so archaic as I lookback at my own lifeall the while transferring180 jazz albums to the thumb drive I will put in the car.What would Stanley Turrentinehave thought of all this.

He says, “I write songswithout music, my headis a libretto warehouse.”She says, “You string wordslike random beads, notwo strands the same.”He says, “Symmetry isfor those with linear minds,who can’t see out of the tunnel.”She said, “Dysenteryis a disease to be avoidedparticularly by poets.”He says, “I’ll sing a songfor you, if I can onlyfind the notes.”Se says, “fine, but knowit is the silent spaces betweenthe notes where music truly lives.